


Remarkably Unremarkable

by StringTheori



Series: A Point Of Shared Experiences [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos POV, Carlos has social issues, Cecil is calm and not a manic pixie dream boy, Cecil makes him nervous, I like to think he has good reason, M/M, Nightvale doesn't follow science, POCecil, also carlos is a bit of an anxious guy, but it totally turn to romance, eventually, friendship is a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StringTheori/pseuds/StringTheori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They meet for the first time in the town meeting though Carlos doesn't much notice him until he's pointed out. He's not caught the radio show before that first night and isn't prone to caring even if the radio turns to a voice, one he later knows as The Voice as if the ordinary looking man is a thing of legend."</p><p>Carlos copes with the fact he is being talked about with pretty words on the most listened to radio show in the new town, Cecil is the perfect gentleman no matter what he talks about on said radio show which confuses Carlos a great deal, and things are often awkward because Carlos is confused and Cecil is too polite (or also confused)(or too infatuated) to try and explain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Corn muffins and tally marks

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction in a long time. Please be gentle.  
> I also just started listening to Night Vale about a week ago, though I've listened to them all (some more than once) and am reading the transcripts. There will be slight alterations in the narrations/timeline but I think we can all agree that Cecil isn't the most reliable of narrators.  
> Also for this fic, I am taking the stance that Cecil's news is spanning a much longer time then just the thirty minutes as most hosts I know have several hours and Cecil likes to talk.
> 
> Or we can just take the stance that it is several hours long but time in Night Vale has it only twenty to thirty minutes if listened to in one stretch (except not, it's the Subway in reverse).
> 
> Spoilers for everything. No trigger warnings.

 

They meet for the first time in the town meeting though Carlos doesn't much notice him until he's pointed out. He's not caught the radio show before that first night and isn't prone to caring even if the radio turns to a voice, one he later knows as The Voice as if the ordinary looking man is a thing of legend.

 

He hasn't the look of a legend and is in fact the sort one would not notice in a crowd, especially not in the throngs of Night Vale. Carlos is distracted by the old woman with a face more wrinkles than features and friends that loom behind her made up of the vastness of space and eyes bright as a star. The eyes are all over their bodies, wings, and no one seems to notice them again save for Carlos and his team. He has made his speech, has been dismissed, and speaking with her is strange and he shivers from the many stares of very few tall creatures but it is better then other options, such as the dark dressed group in the back of the room.

 

"-they said it was for saving the world, non-angelic things," she says, voice stronger than her size and age suggest. Old Woman Josie (capitols required) holds up a decorative blue and white serving tray with patterns of delicate flowers. Their slim aqua tendrils shift on the plate - or Carlos thinks they do - but the little muffins have perfectly light brown sides and crisp pale top, all the signs of a well made corn muffin. There's even small bits of the vegetable-grain-fruit in them. Secretly pleased at the proper recipe, Carlos takes one of the palm sized baked goods. "Personally I think they worry about my salt intake and it's very sweet but now Cecil will be talking about it. People may think I dislike salt."

 

"I'm sorry?" He's distracted by the crumbs on his lab coat, tries to discreetly flick away the golden specks with finger nails he chews too close to the skin.

 

"On the radio show tonight of course. Right now, perhaps. He's here right _now_ but who knows what time it'll be. Time isn't quite what it used to be, I'm afraid." Old Woman Josie sighs, put upon by the world and unfair tactics of men critiquing perfectly good muffins, if the taste of the crumbs on his fingertips means anything. "He's such a fan of them and it's quite news worthy, you know. I'm always interesting."

 

Her friends murmur something resounding and bone-deep no one else but Carlos and his team shudder at. They – Old Woman Josie’s salt stealing friends - lean in close. A wing stretches out and touches the crown of her head. Old Woman Josie pats the pitch black feathered wing, the perfect image of a comforting grandmother.

 

Old Woman Josie points behind him, just past Carlos' shoulder that has a slightly worn hole in the curve from where it once rubbed too much on the seat belt while they drove from the place they started at. He misses the road, despises the mundane sights while on it, enjoys Night Vale even now because how often does one get to study the most scientifically contorted and mismatched place in the country? "That's him, right there. Smile nice, now, he's going to be talking all about you. He already is. You're all over the radio."

 

"—I'm sorry?" Carlos says again, able to justify it by not being -actually- sorry but confused and 'I'm sorry' is a polite conversational term for 'please repeat yourself, I am confused and/or was not listening'. A wing touches his hair. Carlos twitches away, smiles with all of his teeth. Old Woman Josie shakes her finger, raises an eyebrow, and Carlos turns to see the typical masses made up of nothing typical at all. It's the only reason he notices The Voice Of Night Vale, feeling much like the agent in Men in Black, all at once identifying the sweet looking white girl in the rough part of town with physics books at night as dangerous.

 

He once enjoyed that movie. With the hooded and silent figures in the back of the room, the man in the straw hat waving about what looks to be imaginary corn, Carlos rethinks his choice in movies. Perhaps he is now living in one. It makes sense in a way that doesn't at all.

 

An unremarkable man of average height talks, speaking with empty air to his left and a girl with a shirt stating 'INTERN' in bright orange marker to his right. He has brown skin somewhere between sepia and sienna, matte black hair he's pulled back in a loose tail over a shoulder that is neither sharp or round though he stands with excellent posture. He's a hooked nose not like Carlos, the start of crows feet and smile lines, sharp cheekbones and is thirty, maybe near forty, soft framed under a tailored slate vest, salmon shirt, and very, -very- fitted jeans topped off by sandals that match his shirt.

 

He talks with his hands and wide, expressive mouth, gaze bright while he converses with absolutely nothing and the girl. No one around him appears puzzled. Carlos looks at the man and the man looks back, a quick glance of pitch eyes behind slim violet glasses. Old Woman Josie pushes at his elbow, says in a chiding tone: " _Smile_."

 

This unremarkably remarkable man does it before Carlos, a flash of teeth and canines visible from across the room in something not quite a full smile, thick eyebrows high. Carlos smiles back as he has earlier that night on the podium, will even without Old Woman Josie' urging out of sheer relief of meeting (so to speak) the most normal person in Night Vale. He thinks maybe he smiles too much when the man with the un-smile blinks, stops in mid-gesture, and stares back at Carlos. It lasts several heartbeats, verges on uncomfortable before Cecil smiles again, wider, warmer, and Old Woman Josie sighs once more. Happily.

 

"Such a sweet boy," She pats Carlos on the shoulder much as she does her too large friends and their wall-shivering voices. " _Just_ the person to speak to if you need information, you know."

 

"...Ah," says Carlos, ever coherent. He defaults to science and quick words, eyes to Old Woman Josie. "Do you think he would mind if I went to speak with him later? According to my readings we are all very close to crossing the void into death should we remain exposed for too long. The results are inconclusive, though my meter spells out 'run quite fast' although it should only be able to give us numerical read outs." He pauses, fleetingly so, glances back to Cecil and sees he is no longer there, nor is the girl. "It's very surprising you aren't all dead yet. You should be evacuating."

 

Old Woman Josie chuckles, pats his elbow again. "Oh, we know."

 

——

 

He listens to the show after that.

 

Cecil talks about him and his hair, waxes poetic, uses the word 'perfect' too many times while he speaks of Carlos far too often. Carlos tries not to count how often in each nights report and he does anyway. It's silent at first, then tallies on a scrap paper, scratches at the desk, and eventually the team notices. They put up a white board and mark it with smiley faces, different colors for each day. Carlos tries not to look at it after each show. Eventually he memorizes it in a way that makes him uncomfortable. The smiles are creepy.

 

There are quite a lot of them.

 

Everything about Cecil pushes the Discomfort Meter to new heights each time he speaks, whether on the radio or when the two see one another in person. He's polite, courteous, always offers to pay for Carlos' bill at Big Rico's during the obligatory weekly eating when they accidentally are there at the same time. It happens enough to be suspicious – and Carlos is always on guard. There is no talking when it happens save for Cecil being cheerfully sociable and Carlos abrupt. He uses his work as a shield and never invites Cecil to his lab in order to prolong contact. It's a note of interest that off the job Cecil speaks in sentences that require a large amount of commas, uses the word 'like', that he tends to slant most statements to sound like questions, as if he is unsure of himself.

 

He never flirts and in fact never even speaks to Carlos with anything but his eyes until Carlos talks first. They are full of expression, near black and with larger irises then Carlos think normal humans should have. He watches the scientist, wants attention, never asks for it. For all his overly excited words when alone in the studio, Cecil is nothing short of a perfect gentleman. Carlos says 'no' the one time Cecil asks him to sit with him in the same booth, though he is intrigued by the most decidedly abnormal being in all of Night Vale.

 

On the radio, his voice smooth and deep, Cecil mourns no weekend plans. In person, Carlos frets and talks fast, his hair long in fear of another barber banished to the Sand Wastes. Cecil soothes, tries to, tone up and down with more feeling in a single sentence than an entire hour on the radio. He laughs as Carlos says "I am scared _for you._ ", smiles with only a hint of disappointment when Carlos declines an interview, as Night Vale falls to ruins around their shoulders, tries to peer over Carlos' shoulder with each beep of his machines on the attached gills and newly grown horns of several residents.

 

"A 9.7?" Carlos says one day in his lab without a Cecil, eyes wide enough to blur the thick black words on the page. He's not able to admit to how his hand shakes at what must be a typographical error. To his left, Scientist Adelaide nods, taps the edge of the report with the tip of her finger. "That's impossible - highly improbable, nothing is impossible, no, of course not, but if it could be, this would be it, Adelaide. Nothing happened, nothing here that we felt, we agreed the machine malfunctioned. Michael agreed, I insisted on tests, more of them, but our machines just broke so it stood to reason that - and we'd no replacements, the mechanic ran into that open black hole at the side of town - how can this happen? We felt nothing."

 

"I know," She rubs her nose, small and blunt and freckled. "But it happened. The town received a check, the comptroller told me. She was upset we didn't tell them they had a huge earthquake so they had time to prepare a budget. They're giving some of it to us, though. Don't tell anyone."

 

"I told Cecil just last week we had readings." Carlos puts the paper on the lab table perhaps harder than the situation calls for. He's not going to tell anyone.

 

"I know."

 

"He only asked about the dogs."

 

"I know," she says, weary. He's talked about it too often before they discussed the 'broken' monitor. Cecil never disagrees, just asks questions, but even his nods are the sort that speak of a lack of understanding or unwillingness to try. Loyal to everything, to hair and city and the rules of Night Vale. Sometimes Carlos sees, hears, small notes of disbelief in the things Cecil preaches, and Cecil denies it, pretends it never happened. Adelaide glances over her shoulder. "He's here to see you."

 

Carlos pauses. His head hurts. He's no time to finish his coffee to prepare for Cecil - radio Cecil, personal Cecil, reporter Cecil. Carlos knows if he tells Cecil to leave that the handsome man not typically handsome, that he will leave with a smile and perhaps a jaunty half-bow he sometimes does when he says Carlos is being 'funny' instead of 'perfect'. Or 'perfectly funny'.

 

"Let him in." He pushes his palm to his forehead and feels nothing but groundless exhaustion even with a rare nights sleep and new glasses he—

 

—Glasses he forgets to put on, apparently. It's a relief that the blurring from before is not a side effect from shock, merely forgetfulness. Carlos gropes for them on his desk, his eyes just weak enough to hurt without them, not enough for him to recognize it after years without. They're thick and black rimmed, he likes them because they stand out. Contacts don't work in Night Vale; a few hours in and a person hallucinates pink weasels Cecil assures him aren't there.

 

"Ooh, new glasses?" Cecil is right there in front of him, his hands spread wide on the desk. They are definitely manicured, freshly so in the bright shine from the glare of the overhead lights. He speaks in the loping questioning tones of Cecil in a good mood, not nervous, maybe. Carlos notices things. He is supposed to notice things. Scientists notice things, like the curve of his brow when his eyebrows go up over the lime green glasses or the slick sharpness of his six canines while he smiles in the way he does that isn't quite predatory but certainly isn't innocent. He follows up, sympathy abound, with "The weasels?"

 

Carlos adjusts his glasses, taps his fingers on the desk in an anxious mockery of Cecils uncharacteristic leaning stillness. "They were disconcerting."

 

Cecil nods, large and impossibly dark eyes fixing onto the scientist. Carlos is too tired and confused with the earthquake to feel uncomfortable, instead concentrates on long fingers straightening a bow-tie that match the glasses.

 

"So," Reporter voice, drawling and low, full of NPR and professional courtesy. "I've heard from a _very_ reliable source that we've been having exceedingly unexciting activities... down below?"

 

The scientist blinks. Cecil raises his eyebrows.

 

"I believe you worded it as 'our inability to feel the extensive tectonic shifts'."

 

"Michael said he broke our machine," Carlos ran his hand through his hair. Cecils eyes follow the movement before he looks back to the scientists face. "You asked about dogs."

 

"They were very important at the time," says Cecil in a voice Carlos does not know how to argue with. He smiles once more, warm and wide and without malice. "The people of Night Vale want to know what you and your wonderful team want to tell us on how this is, the not feeling things."

 

And Cecil sounds so very professional even with the fall of thick hair the color as the voice of space and his crisp button up with the polka dot tie he matches to his glasses. Carlos is unable to speak, he stammers, and he wishes he can blame it on the pointed chin instead of the fact he has no words. No explanations. There is no likely reason, nothing he is able to think of to satisfy Cecil or Night Vale.

 

The team isn't able to answer this question.

 

He shakes his head and tries to breathe but it comes out only as a low and tired sigh. Looking at Cecil is an impossibility - yes, an impossibility, he has few worries about numbers in regards to conversation with Cecil that doesn't have to do with science and Night Vale and just how weird this entire situation is.

 

"Where did you get your shirt?" Cecil's normal voice flickers through Carlos and his distaste for his lack of knowing. "It fits you so well."

 

"I'll look at my notes," says Carlos, since he doesn't quite remember where he bought the blazer. He's pretty sure he's written it down as a new favorite store for scientists. "Or maybe computer models."

 

It's always possible he made a graph of how to get to the store. It's not in Night Vale.

 

Cecil stares at him, presses his eyebrows together in what Carlos assumes is confusion. Cecil excited and nervous is easy to see, hand movements and pitch of his voice and if he flicks his chin to get long strands from his face. The scientist hesitates, his chest cold and tight in the familiar clutch of having misunderstood a thing in social situations. Cecil never feels that way, not that he has seen, but it's very possible that Carlos sees as much of Cecil that the rest of Night Vale does. It is always suspect how much Cecil is Cecil when he is in the public.

 

"I need to get back to work, to see what's going on," He waves his hand to the computer and other beeping machines that light up more than usual with Cecil and wide smile around. The best way to get through awkward and discomfort with the radio host seems to be barreling on with the conversation, to talk with words that hold him at a distance and show Cecil that he is _Night Vale_ , that Carlos is _not_. "If our machines aren't malfunctioning that means we have to go back for an entire week of readings, to see if we missed more, try to gather up what we can from discarded documents. It shouldn't take too long, I think, but we'll certainly have conclusions - hypothesis, yes, a guess, an educated one - but they'll be rather soon, though not in time for your radio show."

 

He looks to Cecil's wrist where a watch clicks a little too slowly, pays it no mind, refuses to let Cecil take control of the conversation.

 

"Have a good show, I suppose."

 

Cecil opens his mouth as if to answer but he brightens into a smile. He holds out his hand, business card between index and middle finger with a large purple eye and the name 'CECIL PALMER' splashed along the inside of the pupil. Carlos takes it automatically, hasn't the desire to look down and study it.

 

"For when you get those conclusions, Carlos." Cecil says nothing else after the scientists name rolls off his tongue but waves before Carlos answers, turns on his heels, saunters out. Carlos watches, looks down to his new possession to see not just the radio stations number in neat block type but another above the eye in burgundy ink (not blood, not really, can't be) despite the ban on writing implements. Cecil writes beautifully enough to put any calligraphy to shame even if it is just ten numbers and a four letter word.

 

'Home.'

 

Carlos crumples it in his fist. He sees some of his team glancing to his trashcan later and knows they are looking for the discarded First Move.

 

That night he smooths out the bent card stock hidden in his pocket. It goes between the pages of his copy of Ender's _Game_ for all of ten minutes. Carlos moves it after six hundred and seventeen seconds, four hundred and thirty six spent wondering if Cecil ever read the novel, if he knows of the authors opinions, how Cecil might _feel_ if he knows and sees Carlos put the number in the pages of a book that, while well loved, has been put to ink by an outspoken man full of hate.

 

Instead it settles in Good Omens at his favorite part with the fire and the distraught Crowley with his blazing eyes, a creature straight from Night Vale and all the passion of Cecil when discussing his favorite things.

 

Carlos thinks, maybe, one day, he will give Cecil his copy and ask him to read it.


	2. Hips Don't Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Once a person has a glowing and acidic pie filling burn through their lab coat and is sent into a highly uncoordinated cha-cha with their entire team around the laboratory, pies and their bakers immediately become suspicious."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge THANK YOU to my wonderful beta and WTNV brain-plotter-muse-person, AngryPeaches! She made this chapter somewhat coherent and maybe funny. :'D
> 
> No raccoons were harmed in the process of this chapter. Warnings for awkward, Street Cleaning, and text messages.
> 
> **WARNING** This chapter involves anxiety via Carlos, panic attack, puking in a way not related to anything sexy, and loads of awkward and insecurity.

_"And that, dear listeners, is the weather."_

 

Carlos yawns into the inside off his lab coat, ignoring the scratch of the new and untried fibers, how the shoulders pull and the cloth itches in the most inconvenient of places. It takes at least a week to break in new lab coats and until they are suitably soft and perfect. What is now called 'The Great Seismic Pie explosion of Night Vale' left his lab coat choices scarce. The kitchen remains off limits to Adelaide and ingredients such as 'tremble truffle' and 'flour you probably shouldn't use'. No one believes her explanation of 'science' and Carlos doubts they will again. Once a person has a glowing and acidic pie filling burn through their lab coat and is sent into a highly uncoordinated cha-cha with their entire team around the laboratory, pies and their bakers immediately become suspicious.

 

"Carlos, hey!" Theo cranes his head around his laptop, wriggles his eyebrows. "Your boyfriend is back on. Take out those ear plugs, listen to his beautiful dulcet crooning."

 

"Those are ear buds, you moron." Adelaide smacks him upside the back of the head, eliciting a yelp from the tall man. Carlos tucks his chin into his chest to hide a snicker, eyes and hands steady on his pouring. The liquid in the flask bubbles and smells strongly of sulfur. If they are correct, it may be able to reveal the invisible buildings with a simple splash. She speaks louder, leaning overso she can be seen from the corner of his eyes. "Besides, he's trying to drown out Cecil. The poor guy has been sulking ever since there was that _thing_ about Steve Carlsberg."

 

"Pouting because the guy admitted Steve has decent taste in shoes? Seriously?"

 

"Well duh. Shoes are very important to Carlos. He's had those kicks for years, it's not his fault Cecil doesn't see the appeal in worn toes."

 

Carlos does not scowl. He will _not_ scowl nor defend his casual shoes that he does _not_ wear to work. They're unprofessional, not to mention a safety hazard. Wearing the shoes gives them reason to tease him now that they moved on from his ‘boyfriend’.

 

"Carlos," Adelaide raps her knuckles on his table, much too close to his papers. Carlos swears in Spanish and finishes with mutters of death threats in mangled French. He hurries to steady his beakers, taking the moment to keep his irritation at bay.

 

"What are you _doing_?" He glares at her once sure no one is about to die horribly at his distraction and pulls out his ear buds, one large hand wrapping around them. Cecil's voice muffles against his palm. "I could have killed us. No - no, _you_ would kill us."

 

"Mm," Adelaide leans on the table, arms over her chest. "You're still pouting?"

 

At this moment, Carlos will trade his soul for the power of causing spontaneous combustion. He never let go of his desire to be a member of the Amazing X-Men to the point of continuing to debate with friends what would be the _best_. But now he knows without a doubt that he wants to make people explode, perhaps even if it's just Adelaide.

 

"I do not care about Steve Carlsberg. A scientist does not pout. A scientist also doesn't inter--"

 

"Carlos. _Carlos_ ," She interrupts, clutching at her heart, eyes closed. He falters enough to give her time to pounce on his silence. "It's obvious you’re pining. You get so nervous--"

 

"No, I do not--"

 

"--And uptight--"

 

"Adelaide, _please_."

 

"And you really should ask him out," The whole thing ends with an adoring sigh and fluttering lashes. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

 

[3.1415926535897932384...]

 

"Cecil is a useful person to know," Carlos rebuts with his mind on the numbers. "Information. He lets people know about things."

 

"Before or after he tells everyone how absolutely beautiful your hair is?" says Theo from behind his computer.

 

[...6264338327950...]

 

"Are you rattling off pi again?" Adelaide taps his desk again. "You've got your angry face on."

 

"I do not," But he does, brows together, mouth tight, and eyes hopping from beaker to table to Adelaide’s shoulder in a constant effort to not concentrate. "It helps me not pour acid all over people by accident. I'm going back to work."

 

"--And Shakira? Do Cecils hips not lie?"

 

You get caught listening to 'Mountains' _once_...

 

Carlos takes a deep breath. He starts to put the ear buds back to listen to the day’s _very important news_ just as Cecil ruins _everything_.

 

_"And, okay, off script, listeners. I am so sorry but, well, some of you have messaged me with things like 'Cecil, you never talk about Carlos anymore. Is he ill? Are you ill? What is this?'"_

 

"Oh fuck." says Carlos.

 

"Fuck _yes_." Adelaide says with a predatory smile.

 

_"I'm just all, no, no, listeners. Dear Carlos is working as diligently as ever an I'm sure with beautifully coiffed locks. Wonderful, perfect Carlos was last hear enjoying a good old fashioned truffle pie and an invigorating tromp about the dance floor."_

 

"Oh, no, no, no." Carlos hide his face in his hands, voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "I'm not perfect, or my hair, and how does he _know that_."

 

"Cecil wishes it was a fuck yes, good Lord."

 

"I just - I -" Carlos turns off his phone, shutting off his personal feed to the show. The radio for the laboratory keeps going and no one on his team hides their stares and quiet giggles. He scrambles to his feet, pulling off gloves and goggles with the same desperation of a stranded man in the ocean. "We need food. Arby's. Jesus. Stop talking."

 

Carlos isn't sure if he is snapping at Adelaide or Cecil's voice waxing beauty at him – who, for the record, probably isn't even aware Carlos listens. That makes it _worse_ somehow, as if it's an inside joke between him and the town with Carlos left out to guess why people giggle. He the strains of Cecil’s excited voice as he storms from the room, lab coat on the ground and keys forgotten.

 

_"Who knows, listeners? Maybe soon Perfect Carlos will agree to an interview. How fun would that be? Just in time for the biyearly bloodstone parade."_

 

He slams the door shut. Carlos misses the last few sentences. _"I'm off to enjoy some delicious sandwiches from our sponsor, Arby's! Remember: the men with the cameras outside of your home are friendly. Don't smile. Don't wave. Remain **clothed** , and I'm speaking to you. Yes, you. Now... Goodnight, Night Vale. Good night."_

 

\-----

 

Carlos is so lost in his own mind that he doesn't realize he actually forgot his car at the laboratory. He's not sure how it's possible to forget ones car especially in the slow setting heat of Night Vale streets.

 

The Arby's is far from the lab on foot. The end of town rarely seems like much of a drive even in traffic. Hands deep in his pockets, head down, and lacking music, Carlos rethinks his position on just how large Night Vale is. Past experience says that even if he wants to measure the exact size and shape of Night Vale that he will be quite incorrect.

 

“How am I the freak?” He says, all scowls and mutters. Carlos walks faster, hunching his shoulder to try and block even more of his face. “ _Again_. This isn't High School. I'm not – It's not _funny_.”

 

“Of course it is,” says a woman in black as she ducks around him. Carlos spins around to try and retort but the street is empty. Anger at the Sheriffs Secret Police is futile in the nothingness. His jaw clenches again.

 

“Be quiet.” He says anyway, snapping. It makes him feel better if nothing else. For now, that's enough.

 

No one else bothers him on the trek to the Arby's. He sweats, all energy from that day disappearing into the dry heat that remains even after nightfall. The physical exertion chips away at the anger to reveal the soft spot of simmering embarrassment and shame. Carlos wants to bury the feelings from hi younger years when other men insincerely flirted with the awkward scientist.

 

At least they joked about it in private. None of them used a public radio show.

 

Shaded round tables outside of the sandwich shop are his new favorite things ever. Carlos slumps onto a rough stone bench and folds his arms. He says “Ugh” and props his forehead on one forearm.

 

“Carlos?”

 

He hates everything. Cecils voice is much too bight and puzzled to be the radio, ringing clear as a bell in the shade. There's no purr to it, no low radio drone with the pronunciation of Car _los_. It's _Car_ los and there is a difference not even the scientist can place. Cecil repeats his name, _Car_ los, and he can't block Cecil out forever.

 

“Good evening.” It takes everything in him to lift his head to look Cecil, glasses askew. Cecil has one hand flat on the table, his other only a few inches from Carlos' shoulder. If he moves his thumb or Carlos the angle of his head, they can touch. Carlos frowns. Cecil jerks his hand back, proving to Carlos he is able to take a hint.

 

Cecil shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes on Carlos. The light from the restaurant brings out the slight lines around his dark eyes and slim lips, the sharp edges of his cheekbones, and hook of his nose. He stands half in, half out between the open umbrella shading and the florescent glare. It's not flattering. Carlos desperately wants to call him unattractive. But then Cecil smiles complete with a hesitant quiver and it's useless to even try to think that.

 

“Are you okay? You're, uhm, you know.” Cecil waves his hand at him, smile turning to a quick gnaw on his lower lip.

 

“I came to get food for the team.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Carlos looks his now empty pocket. He closes his eyes slowly with the memory that, yes, he left his lab coat and car keys on the floor of their doorway. “That was the plan, anyway. I need to go back and get my wallet.”

 

“Oh,” says Cecil again. Carlos rubs his eyes, the frames of his glasses digging into his forehead. The pain keeps some of the weary heaviness on his shoulders at bay. The radio host clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets, fidgeting in place. “I didn't see your car?”

 

“Walked.” Carlos is on his feet before he realizes how terribly rude he is. He’s frustrated and humiliated over how Cecil portrays him as an idealized, mocking representation of a human being. But that is no excuse to be outright rude to him. “I thought I needed the air.”

 

“You – wait, wait, you _walked_ and you're going to go back for a wallet?” Cecil shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. “That's, like, _really_ far away, Carlos. It's _hot_ out.”

 

The concern grates for the sole reason that Cecil sounds genuine. His voice straddles the line between his radio persona and the exuberant off-script Cecil he sometimes shows; rising and falling in a manner far too human, real. Carlos tries to find a hint of mockery in his tone and finds only apprehensive black eyes under a furrowed brow.

 

He looks into the Arby's rather than to puzzle over Cecil, hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets. “We live in a desert. It's not even a cold desert or one that plummets in temperature at nightfall. Night Vale would be even more concerning then usual if the temperature was to suddenly become something other than ridiculously hot. We're averaging over a hundred this month.”

 

“I don't notice much anymore,” Cecil looks down and to the side with a small, sheepish laugh. He holds out his arms, wrist up to display the long sleeve crimson shirt, crisp all the way to the polished buttons at the wrists. “Uhm, so, you don't have to go all the way back. I can get it. For, well, for you – you scientists and everyone.”

 

“No. No, thank you, but, no.” Carlo is talking before he even know what he's saying, hands up with palms facing Cecil. He shakes his head. Manners. _Manners_. “It's a lot of food, Theo has a pit of a stomach. You've been around people all day, go and eat in peace.”

 

“I always eat alone. It's not as exciting as you might think.” The words are matter of fact and mild. For the second time that day, Cecil ruins _everything_. Carlos stops mid-step, eye straight as he remembers the words he thought so often to himself. Cecil smiles, quick and without a hint of teeth. “Really, no, like, I want to. It's dark, you know? There's all sorts of things out tonight, the parade is soon. None of them are real but better safe then sorry?”

 

Biyearly bloodstone parade. He always eats alone. Cecil's keeping opinions on Carlos' hair to himself. Carlos _really_ doesn't want to walk back to the lab without food. But the image of Cecil eating alone and worried is too vivid to brush off.

 

“This isn't a meal of a personal nature.”

 

“You'll sit with me too?” Cecil says, good cheer right back in place. The nervous smile is brighter and there's a hand flourish when he opens the door, the other waving Carlos in. “Really? I – Awesome!”

 

Cecil orders everything in a language Carlos doesn't recognize, let alone understand. The employees are cheerful and give Carlos looks that make him feel like a bug under a microscope. He stands behind a Cecil who is all of a sudden jovial and smooth, his smile wide and bright. Cecil talks with his hands, fingers fluttering, tucking hair behind his ear or covering his mouth with his laughs. Though Carlos is most certainly a very clever man, he's sure a rock can see Cecil's smile soften at the edges when he turns back to Carlos.

 

“Uhm. Cheddar?” Cecil glances down at the bags in one hand, the tray in his other. Carlos takes the tray and with a small nod. He follows Cecil to a booth by the windows. Carlos sits and his muscles tense, already on high alert for any hints of the things Cecil talks about on the radio.

 

Nothing happens. Cecil settles in with his Crispy Chicken Farmhouse Salad sans chick, white plastic fork and knife out of place against a white spotted tie and delicate grip. What he assumes to be a loud, rambunctious evening is actually quiet chewing and using plastic cutlery.

 

“Sooooo,” Cecil says after a few minutes of that unexpected silence. Carlos looks at him, mouth full of gluten free cheddar and beef wrap. “Science? It's all very...” He waves his fork bearing hand without meeting Carlos' eyes. “Exciting? Right?”

 

Carlos coughs, tries to swallow with little success at first. Cecil doesn't look him in the eyes but somewhere just over his right ear, his smile somewhere between a hopeful grin and the grimace of a man about to meet his maker. Carlos shakes his head.

 

“It depends on what you qualify as exciting,” It takes longer then he thinks it should to come up with the answer (and ability to talk at all). “I find invisible buildings and gigantic seismic wave activities not actually happening fascinating but the people in Night Vale see it as average, every day. The things our machines pick up are unlike anything the world's ever encountered before and here it's just an afternoon. You do realize that when a strange multicolored cloud rains down animal corpses, most of the country would run inside and _hide_ their children, don't you?”

 

Cecil opens his mouth. He hesitates, fork pressing to his lower lip, and eventually shrugs. “Children have to learn their colors?”

 

“That's what we're studying, the whole bit with dead animals being the norm. You received a report that an angel was hit on the head by a falling raccoon and the towns response was to purchase stronger umbrellas.”

 

“Angels don't exist,” says Cecil. “And they were very upset at that raccoon.”

 

Carlos has no time to hide his laugh that is somewhere between a snort and a laugh. He chokes on a mouth full of Fizz Kicking Caffeinated Pop and turns away from the other man sitting in the direct line of cola sputtering. Cecil makes a noise akin to that of a very angry mongoose desperate for blood, standing and saying something about not letting Carlos die from inhaling cola.

 

That is how he ends up snort-laughing into his hand and a napkin violet with Fizz Kicking Caffeinated Pop with Cecil at his side. The radio host is patting his back in what Carlos can only assume is an amateurs attempt of a limited contact Heimlich maneuver.

 

“Raccoon.” is all Carlos can say, voice little more than a wheeze.

 

“Oh no,” Cecils hand falters for a minute, voice full of concern, and he claps Carlos on the back, hard. Carlos hiccups. “I broke you, didn't I? That wasn't the plan, honestly. There wasn't even a _plan_ , I just thought you would get food and we could, like, talk or something before I go to my bowling league. Not _break you_. I am so, so sorry.”

 

Carlos shakes his head. At last he breathes, banishing the matter of fact tone of the angels being upset over _raccoons_. Cecil drops his hand and scoots towards the end of the booth once Carlos is almost back to normal, though the radio host stays on Carlos' side of the table.

 

“I really – I really should be going, Cecil,” Explaining himself is too much for the moment and, quite frankly, runs the risk of him choking on his tongue. “The team, hungry and all of that. They have terrible tempers when their blood sugar crashes.”

 

“Are you sure?” Carlos looks over to Cecil only half a foot away from him, dark hands on the eggshell white table, teeth caught on the curve of his lower lip. “You can come and join us at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex? Old Woman Josie won't mind at all, and her and the Erika's usually take up most of the benches. They'll give you a seat.”

 

“Food.” Carlos grabs for the rest of the bags and clutches to the crinkled paper for some sort of life line. One drops from his hold and starts to tip over. He hasn't the hands or seconds to grab it. In that moment, he only hisses as here is very suddenly a certain radio host pushing him against the booth and leaning across him to grab the bag before it falls. Carlos hears the sharp rap of Cecil’s elbow on the edge of the table and _feels_ him whimper in pain. Cecil’s chin hits Carlos in the forehead hard enough to make his teeth click. The pressure of Cecil leaning forces Carlos to press his legs together in a way that hurts rather than arouse. Cecil squirms and Carlos pushes at the table with the knuckles of his hand not pinned under the others knee. The long line of Cecils arched neck leaves Carlos bereft of the concentration he needs to fix this.

 

It’s lucky for them both Cecil falls back once the table moves, its legs squeaking with the drag of metal on linoleum.

 

“Got it! Ha. No spilled wheat free sandwiches for, ah, Raven,” Cecil huffs, peering at the name scrawled on the bag. He hands it to Carlos, his smile slow and shy. Carlos reaches for the food, unprepared for the low voice laced with warmth; it’s a strange mixture tongue-tied Cecil trying too hard and the monotone radio host. Cecil sounds as though he sees Carlos as a _person_. “Take care of yourself out on the streets, 'kay? Stay away from anyone in a purple hat.”

 

“Oh,” says Carlos, all of the bags at his chest as he very pointedly does _not_ look Cecil in the eyes. “Right. I will make a valiant effort to not look at anything remotely resembling a shade of purple, indigo or a particularly dark red aside. Not even burgundy. I have to go, Cecil, I am sure that everyone at the lab thanks you for this. I'll be fine, enjoy your bowling. I need to study raccoons and glow clouds and there is a _very_ suspicious hole on the far side of town.”

 

“I'll ask Old Woman Josie.” Cecil is away from the table before Carlos finishes speaking. He smiles, clears his throat, and Carlos remembers to breathe. “Ah – yes, so, you know. Purple hats?”

 

“Purple hats. Do you read?”

 

Thick brows flick up over the rims of Cecil's glasses. “If approved and I have the right tea.” He fidgets and says, “I can read. Why?”

 

“I – no, of course you can read. I didn't doubt that, I've seen the curriculum for the schooling and you have to read for your job--” He cringes mentally and speaks faster to try to not _do that_. “One of the team is writing, well, something, and is questioning us all for a read through. I'm just asking. It's not important. Never mind. Can you not mention this on the show?”

 

“Ah... okay.”

 

“Goodbye, Cecil?” It ends as a question. Carlos is successful in not slamming his head into the table top.

 

Cecil goes 'heh' and smiles that low shy way again before he leaves for the bowling alley. Carlos takes his time returning and is successful in keeping away from people in purple hats.

 

\-----

 

The book stays on the battered shelf bought as a second hand piece in a shop Carlos is never sure actually exists. Carlos ignores it and avoids Cecil entirely. Weekend things don't happen. As interesting as it is to see Cecil talk, he finds things to do in Night Vale that absorb his attention for days on end. Adelaide wants to interview the angels and see how their levels match up to the raccoon that offends Erika. Theo insists he’s fixed one of the machines Obnoxious Guy spilled Coffee Guy’s latte on, demands Carlos help him in the paperwork, and it turns out to be _fascinating._ Nothing about it makes sense and overloads one of their computers, and, at one point, Carlos mixes some of the oddly colored granules from the Sand Wastes with a saline solution that leaves him with purple fingers for over a week.

 

Coffee Guy asks him if he choked a Smurf. In a rare moment of humor, Carlos says “No, I ate a person with a purple hat and am becoming one.”

 

He is left in quarantine for another week.

 

They still listen to the show. Carlos feels bad about it, though not enough to stop. His team refuse anyway, every time he frowns at the radio. Adelaide claims 'Because science' at his protest of her _recording_ the show on a nightly basis. "It's important to have records from a native born resident," she says, small hand in the air to hush his protests. "Anthropologists would go nuts over this."

 

"That's not an appropriate word," Carlos slumps in his seat, scowls at the old radio and it's smooth low narrator. "Neither one of them."

 

There is nothing to fret over, he says when he is unsure, there is no reason for guilt. It isn't as if he is _expected_ to call. He replays the confusing way Cecil behaves in public, away from the booth. The impromptu dinner is a tennis match of stammering, idolizing Cecil and the exuberant man Night Vale knows in the depths of their small black hearts. Carlos might be able to brush it all off as a long lived crush if he's ever able to forget the way Cecil smiles at him and the bravery it must take to use a pen and script just to give a man a number. He remembers with disturbing clarity the unintentional closeness of their last moments and how Cecil spoke to him as a man to Carlos, not as a man to a perfect statue.

 

Too many people make note of looks or praise others for things they see as all the person is; Cecil chatters still about his false impressions of Carlos in ways Carlos only sees as mocking. One dinner doesn’t mean Cecil knows him. Carlos is a hard drive, safe mode, no administrator access, and he does not forget. A scientist is told not to trust elements so easily changed and to treat them with the same caution one does a labeled explosive. Cecil wears too many masks and voices for Carlos to put any sort of faith in his words. Niggling thoughts of maybe Cecil _means_ it goes into the mental folder he titles 'Hell no'.

 

Adelaide shrugs, walks away, and no one forgets to turn on and record Cecils show or tell Carlos he isn't allowed to turn it off. Carlos waits for Cecil to discuss him or his hair or even, perhaps, the fact the reporter saw him at Big Rico's earlier that week where Carlos stayed half a minute and only nodded in acknowledgment. There are a few casual toss about: Cecil makes note of the now-working mechanical equipment, on the Invisible House, a condemnation of Telly the Barber if he is spotted in the Sand Wastes by children playing under the proper helicopters with orange slices and water. They are, in fact, _disturbing_ comments, though not in the fashion Carlos expects from Night Vale.

 

Cecil says these things in the same way he reports the latest retraction in the news, how he discusses the dog park that does _not_ exist and they must never approach. He speaks as if from a script and hands Carlos his number written with ink that ought not exist and in script that reveals a talented hand and eye for beauty. Any inflection or sudden drop of personal information in the show is not mentioned. The absolute unflappable cadence pokes at what he knows of Cecil. It isn't as if he knows _much_. He hardly discusses personal details at all, but even so it's very un-Cecil.

 

There are only a few months between when they first meet and now. He interacts with terrifying Eldritch horrors more often then with Cecil - he's not even learned how to ignore things that are there but have orders to not be or how things not there are there. He can't help but feel as if he has lost a friend, perhaps his only one (presumably) born here in Night Vale - someone not obligated by grants or work.

 

On the radio, Cecil uses 'the team of scientists' in place of names.

 

Cecil claims death and destruction on the morning of street cleaning day. The team of scientists pause for three seconds (Carlos counts) before each team scatter in various directions. No one protests the lack of preparation or things to board up windows and doors, they only grab heavy things to try and fortify while they can.

 

"Why is street cleaning _dangerous_?" Adelaide shoves a chair against the door, her voice loud and angry. Michael helps with one of the lab tables he's cleared of equipment - working equipment or, so help him, Carlos is prepared to break Michael's last remaining pen in the most violent manner possible. "What is _wrong_ with these people?"

 

Carlos slams their only window shut and barricades it with the twin bookshelf of the one he has at his apartment. He thinks of the book there, the little bit of paper stuck between the pages of screaming angels and frightened police. It goes disturbingly well with the current situation. "It's _Night Vale_." A few giggle. No one argues.

 

"Slap me in the face and call me monkey." Adelaide says as the sirens start to sound. Cecil talks on the radio, words lost to static and wails and the rush of adrenaline. Parts of the show filter through, low tone still radio perfect and Cecil-less.

_"The deathly silence-"_

_"—wet silence of post-coital breath-catching."_

 

Carlos grabs his phone and huddles under one of the tables welded to the floor. The other scientists find their own spots, hands over heads and necks in a grotesque mockery of the nuclear fallout videos of old. He counts them, makes sure they're all in order like good little ducks. Some are missing. Looking for them is less then not an option. It is _street cleaning day_.

 

_"—as a man, in front of everyone he loves, lets the heat from his clenched hands dissipate—"_

 

It takes him three tries to dial the number correctly, wedges it between shoulder and ear. It falls to the ground, ends the call. A fourth try, a fifth, and Carlos hears the click of the machine in the huddle under the table.

 

_"—the quiet of dead air on the radio._

_The sound of a mistake."_

 

"Hello?" A familiar low voice croons over the phone while that same voice is beeped out over the airwaves. It's the first time there is definite proof Cecil is censored, monitored. However, Carlos doesn’t notice – he is concentrating on the message. "You have reached Cecil G. Palmer. I'm currently off being your most humble reporter, murmuring loving things about our beautiful Night Vale into your pretty little ears. Please leave your name and number and I am sure the Sheriffs Secret Police will let me know as soon as possible."

 

A pause, Carlos about to speak. The voice mail continues. "If this happens to be a certain curious scientist, you may reach me at—" Static sounds, bright and near to deafening. Carlos clutches his phone and does _not_ hiss in pain. He hears no numbers. A second burst of static, a loud beep, and it's all he can take. Carlos ends the call, blood hot in his cheeks, eyes sore. He _knows_ the cell number, static be damned. The numbers burn into his brain, shining, beautiful.

 

"Did that happen?" No one hears him. Sirens upon sirens sound, Adelaide shrieks elements in a tone that colors them as profanities. Michael clings to a string of prayer beads. Carlos winces and looks to the ground between his knees. The tile is old and worn, once a lovely speckled beige, but years of use before the scientists arrival leave it a dull Grey, an echo of what it once was.

_"—was talking about, then I’ll stop knowing about it._

_Let’s go now to the sounds of predatory birds."_

 

Birds likely sound, their chirps lost in _gold-phosphate-FUCKthis_ and fingers on round red beads. Carlos texts the number he never hears but fingers knows, blocks out the panic as he has no way to help any of them.

 

**[Don't die.]**

**[This is Carlos.]**

 

Adelaide creeps out from under her table, hears the screams from outside even more clearly. She retreats again and pulls her labcoat over her head with a yell about soundproofing the laboratory eventually. A hawk screeches from the speakers.

 

            _[don't be silly, of course i won't die. don't let them get to your hair]_

 

            **[Only if you don't talk about this conversation on air.]**

 

The birds are silent now. Cecil begins to speak again, fluid and calmer than before. Carlos stares down at his phone, cringes at the lack of response and how Cecil _keeps talking_.

_"Regrets just bear us down."_

 

            _[fine. but that means i can print out these texts and put them on my altar of bloodstones in dedication to your hair.]_

_[thats a joke by the way]_

 

            **[You've a bad sense of humor]**

 

He taps his fingers on the ground, glowering at what Cecil considers a joke. He sends it anyway. Any response is better then silence. He stops, eyebrows together, lips parted. He has been callous if he considers silence worse than ignoring texts or friends. What a dick move. Encouraging Cecil is _wrong_ but so is freezing him out, isn't it? It's not the act of a friend.

 

Carlos drops his friends. Cecil accepts that as he does all other things in Night Vale. The knowledge chips away at Carlos: he may have lost a friend. If he has, it is no one’s fault but his own.

 

            **[Do you really have an altar?]**

 

Outside of the lab, guttural screams soften, and turn to sobs of relief. Adelaide groans more, near to the door, and guards her face with her jacket. A second string of prayer beads Carlos assumes Michael threw on her perches precariously on one ear. Others on the team crawl from various hiding places and glance around to count their numbers.

 

"Where's Guy?" Raven calls out from behind the shelf of glassware. She shifts, anxious to escape the wall of breakable, and valuable, scientific things. They shudder with full threat to tumble even after having survived the storm.

 

"The obnoxious one? Or the one we like and makes great coffee?" Theo comes to her rescue, long fingers making short work of the shivering glassware. He and Raven start to pack what remains into safety boxes. Carlos leans his head back against the table leg.

 

Carlos hopes they kept the latter. Everyone stops and turns to look at them, their eyes wide.

 

"Did I say that out loud?" Adelaide snickers into her hand. Carlos does his very best to melt into the floor. It's Night Vale. Anything is possible. If he succeeds, he'll chalk the day up to a good one.

 

"Coffee Guy is still here-" The man in question holds up the pot from the doorway, disgruntled. The coffee smells wonderful. “I was locked in an underground bunker with _Big Rico_.”

 

"I think Obnoxious Guy was getting us groceries,” Theo says from behind a box of flasks. “We needed milk.”

 

"Let us mourn,” says Adelaide. “The milk, anyway, I'll survive without him.”

 

Carlos' phone vibrates with 'Cecil' plastered on the screen.

 

            _[welcome to night vale :)]_

 

“You're terrible, Adelaide.” The phone goes into his pocket. Carlos doesn't text again.

 

——

 

Old Woman Josie comments on the lack of Carlos in the show whenever they meet in the market or by the black hole on That Side of town. Carlos shrugs. He's busy. Old Woman Josie knows it even as she tells him how lovely it is when Cecil talks about him. What an _honor_ it is that their wonderful Cecil thinks him worth talking about off the script.

 

Carlos feels as if he is Debbie to Cecils Fester: perfect to the man but everyone around them considers much too good for him. At least Carlos isn’t a serial killer. He’s pretty sure Cecil isn’t. The thoughts remain with him until Carlos wakes up the next morning.  Instead he continues counting – with his watch against Big Ricos instead of repeating pi. When something about Ricos strikes him as odd, he buys three more wristwatches.

 

One goes too fast, another too slow. The last one skips seconds at a time.

 

At the end of the weekend, all of the clocks save for his match up. They are the same time, always, never, but somehow they _are_.

 

He panics.

 

It's a terrible word, one he hates using as a descriptor for himself. However there is no other proper word that fits the resounding thud of blood in his ears, and how his chest is tight, too tight. Breathing is impossible. It's utter stupidity - all of this over a bit of slowed time in a place full of monsters and lies.

 

Time is a _constant_. Gravity and time, they exist, they _do_. Everything else is unreliable from air to God to love and space, mountains – time is fixed.

 

Except it is not.

 

Carlos breathes so deep his lungs ache. This calms him enough to grab his phone from the bookshelf, and put it into his coat pocket. He hunches over his computer again at his small room, running numbers. Somehow he ends up with Cecils card between his teeth, undoubtedly marring the expensive paper. Carlos tastes ink and iron. He ignores the color on his tongue and thoughts of beautiful black widows and how the uncle hiding behind the staircase is the one the Addams consider the catch.

 

Finally he has solid numbers. He calls Cecil at that home number. This time he lists off seconds and minutes and days to numb his panic at the entire world being completely and (and pardon the language) totally _fucked up._ He's proud of how intense he manages to sound, almost put together. It is a crowning moment of social triumph. Cecil flusters; it's been nearly three months since they last spoke other then brief texts and the first since the initial meet of beeping machines that Carlos started. All of it makes sense only in a place like Night Vale: where time in slow and angels are real but denied and where men have two extra canines and radio shows where governments run it while they are praised for even that. Cecil stays quiet for the very longest of times and then says, so very peppy and _Cecil_ :

 

"Neat!"

 

Neat! Just that. That single word. He hears Cecil clap his hand over his mouth. Carlos silent because he is laughing into his elbow hard enough to inhale string. Apparently laughing on the verge of hysteria takes the edge off of his own lack of graces.

 

"Yes." Carlos is wheezing and smiling and it hurts in a good way.

 

"Ahh," says Cecil. His voice raises an octave in true excitement and hesitation with none of the smooth self-assurance he radiates on the air. "No, that's, you know, it really is interesting, it is. If you want to talk -more- about it, we could totally get together sometime to do that."

 

"No." Silence on both ends as Carlos trips over his words to try and _explain_. He knows an offer for a date when he sees one. He doesn't want to lead Cecil on. Carlos needs a source, a Voice, and, maybe, a friend. "I need you to - to just spread the word, is all, to your listeners. I'll keep looking things over. You're just the best one to make sure people know."

 

Cecil hums, though Carlos isn't sure if it's the sort one makes when thinking or when they agree. The scientist waits anyway.

 

"Ahh, well, yes, I suppose you are right," Cecil says after great length. "Although if you ever need to talk science and numbers, you know where I work. I'm _really_ into science, you know."

 

"Science is thrilling." As he does so often with Cecil, Carlos retreats behind science and words at high speeds. He talks about too many things because it's easier to feel like a textbook then a science project. "It's perhaps the most thrilling thing there is. By comparison, existence is simply a vehicle to discovering science, technology a tool, human interaction a string in which to communicate the methods and theories and spread the word of the newest discovery. There's many in Night Vale. With everyone here, it's quite impressive if one could measure such a thing."

 

Carlos wonders why he never learns to shut his mouth. There's sure to be a comment of 'perfect Carlos' and 'smart as his hair is perfect' - something too much about his looks or smile or pedestal placements that make him feel even more awkward.

 

But Cecil laughs. It’s a single, soft huff, and Carlos hears the smile in his voice. "Existence makes science, though, doesn't it? I think people are exciting. We're what makes existence so much fun.”

 

His computer interrupts with beeps. Carlos resists the urge to kiss it for saving him from a moment of polite, confusing Cecil. Carlos dislikes being on a pedestal. It makes him uncomfortable and he doesn't know how to get off of it except by leaving. "I've got to go, it would be good of you to speak with your listeners, Cecil. Goodbye."

 

"It was _very_ nice speaking to you, Carlos." He sounds as though he means the things in his radio show that he doesn't say when they see one another at Big Rico's or during the weekly terrors. Carlos even thinks he means the thing he says sometimes when he has that grin that doesn't show all of his teeth.

 

Carlos hangs up. He spends too much time staring at the phone, silent and cold, his other hand wrapped tight around Cecil's card. He puts the phone into his labcoat pocket, nestled with a stick of chewing gum, three pennies, and a pen that leaks when the top is taken off.

 

Silence is easier; it is not a smooth voice and kind words that do not stink of unwarranted praise. Silence is not 'neat'. Carlos interrupts it with the slow peel of a wrinkled business card stained with burgundy and saliva. Teeth mark brand Cecils name. A tongue print smears the large purple eye of the stations logo. Care is taken in ripping the ink that tastes of blood from the rest of the card. He tucks it into his shirt pocket, safe, dry, without a pen that may ruin it further.

 

He's not sure how he's managed to keep the pen. (Is it a misdemeanor? Carlos can't remember.)

 

It doesn't matter unless they catch him - they will certainly catch him. He puts the pen into the trashcan where its top pops off and ink starts to splotch the papers underneath. Scraps of purple tinged card stock follows, and are  without looping, beautiful handwriting that looks the way its writer sounds.

 

That night he doesn't go to the lab. He braves the streets of Night Vale on the hunt for clocks.

 

———

 

No one looks twice at Carlos’s request to purchase their watches, if he may take the clocks from their walls, to see how for sale they are. Only one person hesitates, demands, terrifies: she is tall and old as her wares on the far side of town, silver eyes unnatural to everything else. She holds a large ax and stands in the center of splintered wood, half burned carpets, broken glass and ceramic.

 

"What." Her ax raises though she hasn't the voice of a murderer. Probably.

 

Wise men run. He is smart (according to grades) and he is brave (according to Cecil) but no one calls him wise. Carlos stays right where he is, arms crossed and in front of an angry, strange woman with her battle ax.

 

"I'd like a clock." Carlos sounds as if he's back in high school; he feels the same high pinch of nerves between his eyes in anticipation of being hurt in the course of finding science. Her hard, cold stare does nothing to help.

 

The weapon lowers a fraction. His paranoia does not. "I smash my things."

 

"You... you don't sell items then? That defeats the purpose of calling it a store, doesn't it? Very misleading." The ax stands upright on it's own, handle up, and it doesn't phase him. Not anymore. Not save for the metal weapon bit. He looks around with what he hopes is the serious face of For Science. “I promise to not try and buy them all, you'd help me a great deal so if--”

 

Things in Night Vale _happen_. He is very rarely prepared for them, if ever. Thy count on Cecil to say 'be on your toes, listeners!', warn them of street cleaners being out and murdering. Carlos is ready to listen most times, even as he runs to the dangers themselves. _Someone_ needs to step in.

 

Cecil does not warn of women in antique shops or of their axes. He says frequently that all citizens ought to be armed. That is one Carlos never listens to. He doesn't _want_ to. The ax is in her hands once more, high above her head in an arc of blunt silver to match her eyes, and Carlos wishes in a desperate yelp that he took that advice.

 

He didn't, hasn't, doesn’t think it's a _thing_ until the moment of an ax right there in his face. Carlos stumbles back in a way decidedly not brave. There is only the shatter of old glass and a cold moment of 'I'm going to die'.

 

The next is 'Cecil will be _really_ upset.'

 

Any last words possible and he thinks the worst five in existence He's lucky there isn't any time for him to say it, head about to break and all.

 

The thoughts flicker, in and out. Carlos puts his hands up to shield his head. He feels no pain, no swing, no crunch of bone. And, he notes with no small satisfaction, no screams. Even so, he breathes twice, deep, slow, and gathers his courage. Only when he is sure he isn't about to scream does he look at her, arms still in the air.

 

She stares back at him, thin white brows together, wrinkles on her cheeks. The ax rests in the body of a grandfather clock. Glass and wood decorate the floor under it. No gears lay with them, no batteries, no springs.

 

“I have money?” She doesn’t smash anything else and so, mind yelling 'no!', Carlos lowers his arms and does _not_ panic. Not even a little. “I was looking for clock. Honestly, that's all.”

 

She frowns. His stomach knots, bile burns the back of his jaw.

 

“I like flasks,” he woman pulls her weapon from the clock. “And beakers. One per clock.”

 

“I- Really?”

 

“Big, small, medium, in that order. One per clock, one of each for three. Go away otherwise.”

 

Carlos leaves with six clocks, three wrist watches, and a promise to deliver the glassware as soon as the sun rises.

 

———

 

Carlos takes the machines apart with careful fingers and disbelief. Watch and clock cases decorate his work desk and spill to the floor, cover his paperwork, hinder his chair.

 

"Are you okay?" Adelaide asks for the whole team, going so far as to lean against the back of his chair. Carlos shakes his head. She steals some of his notes. He breathes, looks at everything a watch must be but are not present. He ignores her and the cadence in his head hat chants something is knowledge o something very wrong because even though strange creatures are unfortunate, humans don't know every species. But they know about time.

 

 _He_ knows about time. There is no raging panic this time when he sees he's wrong, so there is that.

 

The team pool money and procures car radios and timepieces Carlos neglects to in his initial upset. They dissect them together in silence.

 

"Oh god, it's how they make babies! Phosphate, gold, ALUMINUM!" Adelaide screams out of the blue Monday morning, much like Carlos in the antique store. He shrieks out of reflex, glove covered hands in the air while Adelaide throws the wristwatch to the table. "Kill it!"

 

"Killing!" Carlos grabs a large beaker, one that is mostly empty save for the bits of Guys tomato soup from lunch. He slams it over the timepiece actually made of aluminum. Theo squeaks, screwdriver in one hand, pocket watch in the other.

 

Adelaide yells at how capturing is not killing. Stop sciencing, get rid of it and now? Carlos stares, mouth open in shock. It moves, honest to goodness moves. It is the fat gray of nothing, open and small, the size of a thumb. The disgusting thing turns to him, bulges, writhes, sparse specks of hair and small teeth peeking out. He jerks back, the unnatural grotesque blob on the same level of rotted meat with molded bread.

 

No sense of science and theory can fix the lump of revolting gray matter that stares at him; how it moves, creating lips to wrap over its sparse teeth. Carlos claps a hand over his mouth in hopes to stop the need to vomit.

 

It's lucky for all that the toilet is not far. Adelaide orders Michael to gather up the broken times, and put the rest out. It doesn't matter to the lead scientist, his hair mussed, greasy and o imperfect no matter what Cecil may preach. His tongue stings of coffee and bile. Science is not thrilling at that very moment, nothing is, and he cannot catch his breath. The bathroom reeks.

 

The cramps in his stomach refuse to stop. Dry heaves turn to nothing but pain and a limp frame stretched against the toilet bowl. Talking clouds, dead animals, weird fingers, all of those seem so normal in comparison to a boneless mass of hair and teeth.

 

Night Vale will not win.

 

Carlos takes a deep breath and forces himself to his feet. A quick mouth rinse helps clear his head. A splash of cold water to his face wakes him up. The others look to his hair or his shoulders when he returns - anywhere but his face, and he lets them.

 

“That was disgusting. We will probably find more,” A new pair of gloves go on. Carlos snaps them in place, clears his throat. He will call Cecil later. “Let's get this horror fest started.”


End file.
